


I'll Give You the Moon

by syntheticpoetry



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Romance, Sickfic, Sorry I just really love Kurt taking care of Blaine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syntheticpoetry/pseuds/syntheticpoetry
Summary: Sick and alone, Blaine's prepared to spend Christmas on the couch watching old films until an unexpected visitor at the door decides otherwise. AU where the break-up never happened.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

_"_ _Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?_ _"_

Blaine wasn't sure how many times he could watch _It's A Wonderful Life_ before getting sick of it, but as the credits rolled and the television advertised a repeat for anyone who might have missed it he didn't feel compelled to change the channel. After watching _A Christmas Story_ twice already, he welcomed the black and white antics of George Bailey. 

The ever-growing mountains of tissues surrounding him indicated he hadn't left the couch for hours. Not that anyone was home to see. He'd woken up with a scratchy throat to an empty house and an envelope containing fifty dollars with "Merry Christmas" scrawled on the front hastily. He hadn't even bothered calling his father for an explanation. Instead, he stashed the money away in a jar under his bed and planted himself on the sofa at seven in the morning with a thermos of soup.

Ever since his mother had passed away three years back, Blaine had seen less and less of his father. Especially around the holidays. The previous year hadn't been so bad, he'd at least had Kurt to celebrate it with, but with his boyfriend in New York, his father probably at the bar, and his body heavy from sickness he braced himself for a long and lonely Christmas. He sniffled loudly and pressed his hand to his chest, trying to rub away the congestion in his heart that he attributed more to his melancholy mood than his actual physical health. 

As Auld Lang Syne resounded cheerily from the television speakers, he chose the moment to collect the piles of tissues and throw them away. The sudden chime of a doorbell caught his attention on his way back from the kitchen and he grabbed a blanket off of the couch as he passed by it on the way to the front door. 

"Merry Christmas, son!" Burt's enthusiastic face greeted him as Blaine wrenched open the door. He held out a lump of aluminum foil that Blaine guessed must have been covering a plate with some assortment of treats that Carole had baked. 

"Thanks, you too, Mr. Hummel," Blaine smiled and stepped aside to let him in as an unruly gust of wind assaulted both of them. 

"Pretty quiet in here," Burt quickly hustled in and Blaine all but slammed the door shut behind him, bundling himself up tighter in his blanket.

"Just me and ol' George Bailey," Blaine nodded towards the television set where the young protagonist chatted with two girls in the pharmacy he worked in. Burt's animated smile faded quickly as the weight of Blaine’s words settled. 

"You mean to tell me you're alone on Christmas? Where are your folks?"

"I uh—I dunno if Kurt ever told you about my mom?" Blaine rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and suppressed a coughing fit into a balled up fist. "She died a few years back. And my dad—honestly, I'm not sure where my dad is." 

Burt didn't say a word as he picked up the remote and turned off the television. Blaine eyed him curiously before pressure tore through his lungs and he coughed with such intensity that it left him panting afterwards. His already raw throat felt scorched as he inhaled rushed gasps of air. 

"And you're sick," Burt observed. "Come on." 

"Come where?" Blaine sniffled and took in another large gulp of air through his mouth. 

"Pack a bag for a few nights and meet me at the car," Burt left him no room for an argument. Not that Blaine intended to cross the man; he'd spoken with such conviction and anger—not that it was directed towards Blaine, and he knew that—that Blaine saw no point in trying to fight it. He nodded wordlessly and ascended the stairs to his bedroom where he proceeded to shove three days worth of cardigans, button ups, bowties, and jeans into an old Dalton Academy duffle bag. He glanced around the room and decided to just borrow anything else he might have forgotten from Kurt's bedroom before returning downstairs to see Burt had chosen to wait for him by the front door. 

"Now I know you must be sick," Burt extended his hand for the duffle bag. Blaine glanced down at himself and took in his disheveled appearance: Dalton sweatpants and a looser-than-normal t-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair and realised it was still ungelled. 

"Give me a minute," Blaine wheezed and made for the stairs again. 

"Get changed later, kiddo. You should just try to stay comfortable and sleep for a bit. Come on, I've called Carole and she's expecting us soon." 

"But—" Blaine protested with a pout. 

"But nothing," Burt jerked his head towards the door. "Bring the blanket with you, it's freezing out." 

Blaine went over to the closet and dressed himself in a black winter pea coat, red scarf and blue wool beanie before stepping into a pair of loafers and hugging the blanket tightly around himself again. He followed Burt out to the car and, by the time he crawled into the backseat, was already shaking violently. Burt cranked the heat up, directing all of the vents onto Blaine, and drove off. 

"Kurt tells me Christmas is your favourite holiday," Burt's gruff voice sliced through the silence, sounding less angry and more worried now. 

"Yeah," Blaine let the blanket go slack around his shoulders. "I usually go caroling every year, but I haven't been in touch with any of the Warblers since..." He cleared his throat as he brought his fingers up to the eye he'd almost lost his vision in and forced a smile. "Have you talked to Kurt yet today? How's his first Christmas in New York? I couldn't get through to him earlier." 

"Oh, he's good. Yeah, he went and saw the tree lighting with Rachel," Burt glanced at Blaine guiltily, who was too preoccupied with watching snow start to fall to notice. 

They coasted through the remainder of the drive on awkward exchanges of life updates, Blaine feeling too detached and sad all of a sudden to really keep up a decent conversation. Burt pulled into the driveway and Blaine's heart lurched when his eyes fell on Kurt's car, covered in a thin layer of white, dusty snow—he missed him quite terribly, and the sight of his car was enough to unload bags of salt in the pit of his stomach. How was he going to survive a few days in his boyfriend’s bedroom without him there?

As Burt hurried into the house, Blaine lingered for a few seconds and tilted his head back, shutting his eyes, as he opened his mouth to catch snowflakes on his tongue. Burt reached the front door and turned back, watching Blaine with melancholy eyes. He allowed Blaine the moment to himself before softly uttering, "Inside, kiddo." Blaine's movements were sluggish as he opened his eyes and nodded at Burt, taking care to keep his blanket from trailing on the ground as he strolled past Burt into the warmth of Carole's open arms. 

"I have soup and tea ready, unless you want hot chocolate instead. Dinner will be ready soon. So good to see you, Blaine. Merry Christmas, sweetheart," she pressed a kiss to the top of his head and squeezed him gently. Blaine couldn't help but think of how she reminded him of Mrs. Weasley sometimes, especially now. 

"Merry Christmas, Carole," Blaine sniffled, inhaling too hard, and making himself cough. Despite being completely congested and unable to smell anything, he knew she probably emitted the wonderful essence of peppermint. It was a comfort whenever he visited, the aroma reminded him of his own mother. 

"Should we give him his present now or later?" Carole turned to Burt with a twinkle in her eyes, her arms still draped over Blaine’s shoulders.

"You guys didn't have to—"

"I think now would be good," Burt smiled back at her brightly. "It's down in Kurt's room."

Blaine looked between the two of them curiously and a little guiltily. He hadn't expected a gift from them. 

"Well, go on," Carole nudged him towards the stairs. 

He took his bag from Burt and thanked them shyly before descending the stairs. As he neared the bottom, he wondered how he was going to find it, if they’d left it in plain sight or if he would have to search for it. But, as he flicked on the light switch and dropped his bag and blanket to the floor, he saw it there on the bed: Kurt was curled up, eyes closed, a silver bow pressed to his hair. Blaine didn't even hesitate before gravitating towards the mattress and molding his body to fit the contours of Kurt's. 

He was almost afraid to touch him, even considered the possibility that he'd taken far too much cold medication and was merely hallucinating his presence. But his fingers fumbled, clumsily, over the heat of Kurt's skin—he was real, he was here, he was _home_. Kurt stirred as Blaine was burying his face in the crook of his boyfriend's neck. He wanted, more than anything, to breathe in the scent of vanilla, to take in as much of Kurt as he possibly could because, although he was here now, Blaine knew he would be leaving again soon. 

"Hey, you," Kurt mumbled sleepily, passing his fingers through Blaine's hair. "No gel? On Christmas? Have I got the right boy in my bed?" He cracked open his eyes and Blaine leaned back just the slightest amount so he could look up at him with tender, hazel eyes. 

"I can't believe you're here," Blaine said breathlessly. 

"Oh, sweetie, you sound awful," Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine's forehead. "And I couldn't stand being away from you for Christmas. Now, how long have you been sick?"

"Since Friday," Blaine quickly shoved his face into the pillow as he started coughing. Kurt rubbed his back for a few minutes, pressing kisses to layers of fabric. Blaine was either in such a daze or had a very explicit imagination, because he could actually feel the little traces of heat where Kurt had planted his lips. He turned his head, but kept it against the pillow, and smiled dreamily at Kurt. "Your dad's invited me to stay for a few days." 

"Has he?" Kurt hovered his lips over Blaine's neck. "And what did _your_ dad have to say about that?" 

"Nothing, he wasn't home," Blaine shivered as Kurt's breath made contact. Some nights, right before he fell asleep, he imagined it there. Constant, warm, inviting, loving—a single breath with a thousand tiny secrets. 

Kurt frowned and turned his gaze upwards, earning a small whine from Blaine. "No, I love when you do that—"

"What do you mean he wasn't home? It's Christmas," Kurt argued softly, knowing full well that he was raising his dispute with the wrong person. 

"It's my dad," Blaine stated simply, as though that offered clarification for the entire conversation. 

"I know you guys don't get along, but.... I mean, on Christmas?" Kurt sounded sad and Blaine immediately wanted it to end. He wanted to hear untamed giddiness in Kurt's words, the unbridled excitement he often dreamt of before and since Kurt's absence, not this sympathetic sorrow. 

"I think if reminds him of my mom too much," Blaine dragged his sleeve under his nose and sniffled hard again. 

Kurt lightly slapped his hand away and plucked a tissue from a square box beside the bed. "So you were just going to spend Christmas by yourself?" He moved to dab Blaine's nose and, for once, Blaine didn't object to being doted on. "Blaine," Kurt said in breathy disbelief. 

"Everything worked out in the end," Blaine coughed loudly into the pillow again and moaned softly, rubbing his chest. 

"Babe," Kurt whispered in the same ethereal tone and slid his hand over Blaine's. "Here, let me." He slowly replaced Blaine's hand with his own and rubbed small circles across his chest. 

Blaine practically hummed relief under his touch, letting out occasional small, soft content noises. He wasn't truly aware of how severely his body missed Kurt until moments like this, where they were so in sync, so close and readable to each other. 

"Have you been taking care of yourself?" Kurt asked in a quiet and serious whisper. 

"You're so cute when you're worried," Blaine mumbled through a yawn. When he received silence, he forced his eyes open and was faced with Kurt's gaping right back, wide and concerned. "Yes, I have been."

Kurt pressed another kiss to Blaine's forehead, and Blaine's heavy eyes found themselves closing once again. "Good. Merry Christmas, love," Kurt murmured, so close and so tangible. And, though he had already drifted away to serene dreams of what the rest if their night would be like, the faintest hint of a smile graced Blaine's face followed by a soft snore. 

The two-hour nap passed by like a five minute blur, leaving Blaine groggy and lethargic as Kurt roused him for dinner. It took him ten minutes and a few well-placed kisses to convince Blaine to finally get up. 

"Wait, I have to get dressed," Blaine dragged his knuckles across his eyes, which did very little to squash out the drowsiness. 

"They're not going to care if you get dressed up or not, sweetie," Kurt placed his hand on Blaine's lower back and tried to dissuade him against the effort. But he understood it; he'd have wanted to do the same. 

"Just take a minute," Blaine didn't even bother to look at what clothes he extracted from his bag. "Do you have something I can borrow for my hair?" 

"Not at all," Kurt ruffled Blaine's hair playfully. "I like it like this, can it be my present?"

"Present," Blaine echoed as the rest of his brain struggled to catch up to the meaning of the word. "Your present, I mailed it to New York!" he exclaimed miserably at his realization. 

"I'll have a little piece of you waiting for me there when I get back then," Kurt kissed his cheek. "My request still stands though."

Blaine shrugged his shirt off with stiff movements. His muscles ached more than they did earlier, making it very difficult to pull off his comfort clothes; he looked at the pants and shirt he'd picked out almost dauntingly, as though the task of actually getting into them now was suddenly too much for him. Kurt read his expression like an open book and helped him get dressed, pressing light kisses into Blaine's exposed, overheated skin.

"Were you this warm earlier?" Kurt laid his hand across Blaine's forehead as Blaine grappled with his shirt buttons. 

"Thought you said you always think I'm hot," Blaine jested half-heartedly. Truthfully, he felt worse than he did before. Kurt rolled his eyes and grazed his thumb gently over Blaine's cheek. 

"Let's go find some medicine for you, then it's dinner, presents and—"

"Mandatory cuddle time," Blaine interjected, snaking his arms around Kurt's waist and laying his head against his shoulder. 

"Whatever you say," Kurt suppressed his concern and tried to focus solely on enjoying the amorous moment. "Up we go. Before my dad and Carole start to get suspicious."

Blaine dragged his face across Kurt's chest, inhaling deeply in another futile attempt to breathe in the expected scent of vanilla. He wasn't hungry. Honestly, all he wanted was to curl up beside Kurt in front of the fireplace, blinking and breathing conversations back and forth to each other that only they understood. Everyone they knew made comments about this, the fact that they could convey an entire conversation to each other through facial expressions. 

A faint sigh—yes, I know you still can't believe that was the dress she decided to wear. 

Chewing on your lower lip—your father's been giving you a rough time today, hasn't he?

That twinkle in your eyes—don't worry, we'll have the house to ourselves soon enough. 

The distance, the lack of those silent exchanges, wounded Blaine more than he ever thought possible. But he wanted Kurt to be happy, _needed_ him to spread his perfectly handcrafted wings and fly.

They dawdled for a few more minutes before finally going upstairs to join Carole, Burt, and Finn for dinner. Carole, bless her heart, had a bowl of soup and a bottle of cough/cold syrup waiting for Blaine while she proceeded to scoop heaps of food onto everyone else's plates. Blaine pulled a chair out for Kurt and gestured grandly before having to shove his hand against his mouth to cover a coughing fit. Kurt responded with a kiss to his temple before sitting down, letting his hand linger on the one Blaine still had resting on the back of the chair. 

Blaine practically collapsed into the seat beside Kurt and carefully measured out a spoonful of cough syrup, swallowing it down with a grimace, and coughed a few times through a tightly clenched jaw. Kurt’s hand was immediately on Blaine’s back, massaging it soothingly, as Blaine stared down at his bowl. His stomach churned, but not for sustenance—this was going to be the most uncomfortable dinner he’d have to bear through. He looked to Kurt helplessly, a quiet desperation painted boldly in his pupils. Kurt nodded and leaned forward, caressing his cheek with his lips before murmuring in his ear, “I know. Just try to eat a little and then I’ll ask if we can go lay down on the couch, okay?”

Blaine nodded slightly in response and lifted up his spoon, his arm weak and feeling very much like lead. He’d participated in the conversations to some extent, though he wouldn’t have been able to recall what any of them were about if he was asked; their words passed above his head in a droning buzz, indiscernible and relentless. He counted spoonfuls of soup and reached twelve before Kurt scraped his chair back and stood up.

“Dad, we’re going to go lay down in the living room until you guys are all finished, is that okay?”

“Sure, we’ll join you kids soon,” Burt raised his fork to his mouth and turned back to Finn.

Blaine stood and made to grab his bowl along with Kurt’s plate, but Kurt snatched them up and nodded towards the living room. “Be right there. Pick out a movie we can watch.” Blaine thanked them for dinner before listlessly making his way to the living room. Rather than peruse the selection of DVDs, he tuned the television on to the channel showing the all day marathon of _It’s A Wonderful Life_ and flopped down onto the sofa.

As he settled in, he was finally able to get a good look around the room and his heart fluttered as his gaze fell onto the Christmas tree. There hadn’t been a Christmas tree in his house for years. He missed the smell of pine, missed the careful planning when it came to decorating and the overall depth it added to the holiday spirit. He had tried to convince his father to get one the year his mother died, but the argument ended in screams and tears. He hadn’t tried again after that.

Blaine cast a glance towards the kitchen before standing up, with some effort, and standing in front of the tree. Amongst the usual store-bought ornaments, Blaine spotted what looked like handmade wooden picture frames, painted—no doubt—by the hands of a child. Kurt’s gleaming smile mirrored his mother’s in the small 2”x4” photo kept safe within the frame. As tragic as it was, the shared loss of their mothers brought them closer together. Blaine had had no one to talk to about it, bottling up his anger and frustrations until the fleeting thought of leaving this world behind had taken hold of him. He never told Kurt about that, never delved further into the claim of, _“You came along and saved my life, you know.”_ And Kurt never tried to pry any further. He recognized the gratitude of salvation, though he had a feeling Blaine’s ran deeper than his own, and left it at that. They provided stability for each other—that was all that really mattered.

“Admiring my handiwork, I see,” Kurt’s voice came softly from behind as he approached Blaine.

“So talented, even in your youth,” Blaine replied fondly, touching another ornament.

“You and your compliments,” Kurt laughed airily, colour rushing to his cheeks. “What have you picked for us to watch?”

Blaine pointed at the television and Kurt laughed again, louder this time. “I should have known. Your favourite,” Kurt took a seat on the couch and patted the space beside him, looking up at Blaine with bright, expectant eyes. Blaine essentially floated over and sank down, curling up and laying his head on Kurt’s lap. Kurt tousled Blaine’s hair, filling the spaces between his fingers with thick curls he rarely ever got to play with.

“I missed you,” Blaine whimpered into Kurt’s thigh as he brought a hand up to rest on his knee.

“I missed you too,” Kurt slid his hand over to Blaine’s shoulder, squeezing out a knot. Blaine coughed into hand before catching a glimmer of red and white out of his peripheral vision.

“Have you been wearing that the whole time?” Blaine touched two fingers to the bowtie of the promise ring he’d made for Kurt the previous year.

“Slipped it on after I washed the dishes,” Kurt held out his hand, admiring it affectionately.

“Alright, who’s ready to open presents?” Burt strolled into the room with Carole and Finn and clapped his hands together. They all stopped when they spotted Kurt and Blaine on the couch, still deeply engrossed in each other, and Burt had to clear his throat to get their attention. Kurt lazily passed a glance over to his father before straightening up, running his hand through Blaine’s hair again.

“Oh, is everyone ready?” Kurt asked as Blaine placed his hand back on his knee again.

“Mm,” Burt grunted his response. “How’re you feeling, Blaine?”

“I’m alright,” he croaked in a raspy voice. As everyone began taking seats on the floor near the tree he mentally repeated _Get up, come on, sit up_ a few times, but in the end he just couldn’t convince himself to. Burt crawled over to the tree and picked up presents one by one, reading the names aloud and handing them out.

“Dad, Blaine’s are all in that pile over there. I moved them together earlier,” Kurt pointed to a neatly organized pile to the right of Burt.

_There’s more than one?_

Blaine felt like a spectator rather than part of the group, watching the scene unfurl above his own body, as Burt passed down one, two, three… a total of eight gifts. The confusion must have been visibly evident on his face because four pairs of sympathetic eyes were suddenly on him now.

“You guys didn’t have to,” he managed to sit up, leaning his shoulder against Kurt’s as Finn picked up the first present Burt had set down on the floor by them and held it out to Blaine.

“None of these are even from Kurt. He’s hoarding all of those to give you to later,” Finn explained. “This one’s from me.”

Blaine set the box on his lap and carefully slid his finger under the tape, unwrapping it as neatly as he possibly could. The laughter that bubbled up in his throat actually hurt, but he couldn’t keep from squeaking out a few giggles as he eyed the box: a beautifully handcrafted miniature Nightwing statue.

“That one’s your favourite, right? I kinda just went based on who I thought your costume looked like the most,” Finn babbled uncertainly. “If it’s not—“

“It is,” Blaine interrupted. “I love it, thank you,” he beamed at Finn. “I’ve forgotten everyone’s gifts at home though, I’m afraid…”

“We’re just glad to have you here, Blaine,” Burt reassured him and handed a small box to Carole. Blaine spent the next few minutes watching everyone exchange and unwrap gifts, the familiar tug on his heartstrings strong and steady as he remembered his mother’s shared enthusiasm for the holiday. He’d always made her something, and she claimed—each year—that it was the best gift she’d ever received. Kurt’s eyes had reflected hers last year: full of love, pride, complete _adoration_ and Blaine drowned in it. It had been the first Christmas since her death that he hadn’t felt… lost.

“Glad to be here,” Blaine whispered back.

He’d been in such a daze watching everyone else that Kurt had to nudge him and remind him to open the rest of his presents. He unwrapped them to discover two new cardigans, three scarves, and two bowties. He grinned broadly with the opening of each new box, wondering if they all had picked up on his sense of style by now on their own or if Kurt had guided them carefully to the right choices. As he was folding up the torn wrapping paper, Burt suddenly announced, “Oh, right. Almost forgot this one,” and held out an envelope with a red bow taped to it.

Kurt’s eyes immediately reflected the excitement he tried to keep stifled as Blaine humbly took it from him. “I take it you already know what this is,” Blaine laughed softly when he caught Kurt’s expression.

“Yep,” Kurt grinned slyly and slid a hand over Blaine’s knee; he was practically vibrating as Blaine opened the envelope.

Blaine could actually _feel_ his heart spontaneously grow wings and tear right through his chest, fluttering around the room, on display for all to see.

_A plane ticket. A plane ticket to New York._

“Merry Christmas, son,” Burt stood up and patted Blaine’s arm while he stared at the ticket, the date and time set for the following night.

“Merry Christmas, Blaine,” Carole added. And before he knew what was happening, there were tears in his eyes and suddenly he was surrounded by far too much body heat, but it felt reassuring and necessary rather than stifling.

And then his tears had become sobs, uncontainable and self-deprecating, as he gasped out things like, “I don’t deserve you guys;” “you don’t understand what this means to me;” and “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Burt, Carole, and Finn had all taken a step back as Kurt pressed a kiss to Blaine’s forehead and suggested, “How about we head downstairs, okay?” Blaine nodded, sniffling and coughing as he raised his arm up to his nose and dragged it across carelessly.

“See you in the morning,” Burt patted Blaine’s arm again before Carole swooped in for a hug and kissed him on the top of his head.

“Thank you,” Blaine mouthed as Kurt led him away to his bedroom.

“You alright, sweetie?” Kurt kneeled down on the floor in front of Blaine once he had gotten him to sit down on the bed. He settled between his legs, rubbing both hands up Blaine’s thighs soothingly.

“How did I luck out with you? With your family?” Blaine pressed his sleeves to his eyes. “I don’t de—“

“You _do_ deserve this. All of this,” Kurt interjected and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “You’re not the only one who got lucky, by the way.”

Blaine hiccupped as he let out a laugh mingled with a sob. “Kurt, I love you so much,” he breathed out, all of the air evacuating his lungs to guide his confession safely to the brilliant source of happiness in front of him.

“I _adore_ you, Blaine Anderson,” Kurt trailed his hands up Blaine’s thighs and settled them on his waist. “Now,” he paused only to kiss the tip of Blaine’s nose, “Do you want your presents from me now or later?”

“Tomorrow,” Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt’s neck. “I need to stay like this for awhile.”

And it was true. He didn’t just want Kurt, he _needed_ him; he needed something to keep him anchored down because he strongly believed he would simply float away without Kurt’s hands on him.

“Okay,” Kurt kissed a patch of exposed skin on Blaine’s chest. “Ready for your first New Year’s in New York?”

“The first of many,” Blaine whispered, his heart thumping wildly—so full of love, so full of _life_.


	2. Chapter 2

When he woke up the next morning, Blaine was absolutely certain that fire ants had invaded his throat and they had all rubbed their tiny hands together to create the flames to set it ablaze. He couldn't quite swallow; at some point during the night his body temperature must have raised itself up a few degrees, leaving him drenched in sweat—which made no sense to him now because, simultaneously, chills crashed over his nerves in violent waves; damp curls plastered themselves against his forehead. Overall, he felt much worse than he had the night before. It was a miracle he'd been able to sleep at all. Beside him, Kurt's slender form was half covered by the blankets and—Blaine gulped audibly and cringed as his throat reprimanded him with an urgent twinge—had managed to strip himself down to his boxers. What he wouldn't give to—

"Morning," Kurt stretched, the blanket shifting down, down, down to reveal just how low his boxers rested on his waist. Blaine traced the prickly trail of hair beneath Kurt's bellybutton with his eyes and gulped again. 

"Morning," he replied with an ugly rasp to his voice. He massaged his throat with his index and middle fingers and his thumb before clearing trying to clear it. Immediately, regret washed over him as little land mines burst in his esophagus, warning him not to try anything like that again any time soon. The pounding in his head was an entirely different story, but it sent out it's own brand of warning shots every time he blinked or moved. 

"Aw, sweetie," Kurt frowned, suddenly very awake. "You sound terrible."

"That's not very," Blaine stopped to cough loudly and followed up with a miserable moan. "Nice," he continued, despite another wildfire threatening to reduce his tonsils to ashes.

"Shhhh," Kurt soothed and rubbed Blaine's arm with a subtle 'I'm the boss' attitude. "No talking. I'll make you some tea for your throat. Maybe we should take you to see a doctor—"

"No," Blaine rushed out and coughed vigorously, a punishment for his hasty reaction. 

"I said no talking!" Kurt furrowed his brow in concern and left his hand to rest on Blaine's elbow. 

"Then no doctor," Blaine could barely get the words out. Even if his vocal chords weren't betraying him, he wouldn't dare voice his fear that a trip to the doctor might mean no trip to New York with Kurt. He wanted it more than anything and he wasn't about to let a silly cold stand in the way of his much needed vacation. 

"Fine, fine," Kurt hurried to agree. "Here," he leaned over the side of the bed and rummaged through his backpack—his carry-on for the flight, no doubt— where he pulled out an iPad. "Use this to type on if you want to talk. You know how vocal arrest works."

Blaine knew the terms of "vocal arrest" because Kurt would often practice it at the smallest hint of a sore throat; Blaine, on the other hand, never allowed himself the break, nor could he keep from talking. In fact, he was amazed that Kurt had always had the willpower to stay silent. But he nodded his agreement anyways and Kurt rewarded him with a peck on the cheek. If it wasn't for this rotten illness, Blaine knew they'd have nearly suffocated by now with all of the hungry kissing they still needed to catch up on. He watched Kurt toss the blanket off of himself and had to avert his eyes; if he took in Kurt's exposed skin any longer, there was no way he could guarantee keeping his germs to himself. As Kurt noisily searched for clothes, Blaine suddenly remembered that, although he'd brought some clothes with him already, he definitely wasn't packed for New York. He was about to speak, but the weight of Kurt's ipad on his stomach reminded him not to. He pushed himself up, joints achy and miserable, and typed out a sentence to show him.

_I need to grab some things from home before the flight._

Kurt nodded. "Okay, so how about shower, tea, breakfast and then we go?" 

Blaine responded with a thumbs-up and ran a hand through his wet curls, cringing in the process. 

"We should shower together," Kurt stated. "Save time."

Blaine felt a flare-up of heat rush straight from his cheeks and settle itself comfortably between his legs. He wasn't embarrassed, they'd seen each other naked and had sex already plenty of times, but the thought of their very wet, _very_ naked bodies against each other after such a long stretch of time away from one another gave him goose-bumps and boiled his blood in the best way possible all at once. He gave a nonchalant nod of the head, tried to play it off like his entire body wasn't just _aching_ for Kurt to touch him, to hold him beyond the thin—yet thick as steel—barriers that their clothing represented, but Kurt could read him like a worn, beaten up copy of a _Harry Potter_ book by now. The tiniest smirk tugged at his lips and he dropped the pair of jeans he had in his hand. 

"I don't remember it being this easy to get you so excited," Kurt teased and Blaine grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. 

Kurt gasped loudly, mouth hanging open as he feigned being appalled, "Well!" He sashayed towards the bathroom, the crinkles in his boxers hugging the curve of his ass and moving against it in all of the right ways. Blaine wasted no time in throwing the blankets off of himself and trailing after Kurt; he at least had the decency to keep from drooling like a hungry puppy though (despite being _extremely_ hungry.) Kurt had already begun running the water by the time Blaine reached the bathroom. It was when Kurt was shimmying out of his underwear that Blaine realized just how uncomfortable he felt in his own clothes—saturated with sweat and clinging to every inch of him—so he got to work peeling them off. Kurt closed the door while Blaine was busying himself with folding his clothes neatly as he stripped and couldn't resist an eye roll at his boyfriend's minor OCD quirk. Blaine set the pile of pristine fabric squares on the sink, nearly dropping them in the process as a particularly powerful shiver coursed through him. 

"In," Kurt pointed to the appealing wisps of steam behind the glass shower door; Blaine obliged and actually moaned his content as the water covered his skin. All of the aches and pains he'd been experiencing since he woke up had decided it best to take a temporary break, and with the addition of Kurt's arms around him—so strong and familiar—Blaine was in pure ecstasy. Kurt closed in whatever minuscule gap may have been between them, tightening his embrace ever so slightly with overprotective intent, and pressed a kiss to Blaine's neck. 

"Kurt," Blaine breathed out with scratchy, discordant notes. "If you—"

"Baby, I said no talking," Kurt brought his lips up to the underside of Blaine's jaw and let his tongue peek out to taste the overheated skin. He'd discovered so many of Blaine's sensitive spots, the smallest bundles of nerves that sent his entire body into twitchy disarray, but Kurt was always looking for more of them. He struck out with Blaine's jaw and relocated his lips back to his neck, gently scraping teeth against the area where his shoulder connected and let his hands wander south. Blaine leaned back against him, let his head fall onto Kurt's shoulder, and did nothing to contain the soft, desperate little moans erupting from him in quick bursts. 

"Where else do you want my mouth, Blaine?" Kurt's nose brushed against Blaine's ear as he whispered the question with a seductive growl. "Point, don't say," he added when Blaine started to open his mouth. 

Immediately, Blaine twisted around in Kurt's arms and pulled his boyfriend's hips closer. He needed him as close as physically possible, and his desperation showed. From the way he rutted frantically against Kurt to the vice like grip he had around him, the intimacy he craved went far beyond sex. He'd spent month after lonely month in a silent longing, sometimes so strong that he thought his chest might actually collapse, some nights with only pictures and dreams to try to quell his need. All of this was evident now. There was no hiding this from Kurt, or anyone for that matter; he was an addict who had gotten hold of his drug once again. 

"Blaine," there was an urgency to Kurt's voice, like he'd been trying to get Blaine's attention for a while now. "Blaine, sweetie, slow down—" 

Slow down? Why would Kurt be asking him to slow down? 

And then the sound of his own breathing finally reached Blaine's ears—quick and wheezy; he became aware of the tickle in the back of his throat, the one that had been causing coughing fits to overpower his body for days now. The same tickle that sent him into one now, forcing him to stop thrusting against Kurt and relocate his hand to his chest instead as powerful coughs left him feeling lightheaded. His body was doing too many things at once: his poor lungs, begging for air; his fragile head, pounding with each cough; not to mention, the majority of the blood in his body was still doing its job to keep the appendage between his legs rock hard. Suddenly all of those "wakeup-aches" returned, with a few new additions. 

"Okay, I think we should stop," Kurt uttered the words reluctantly and Blaine felt some heat sneak away from his cock and race to his cheeks. "Here, sit down. Are you alright? Can you breathe?"

Kurt slid a hand over the small of Blaine's back and guided him towards the floor. Blaine let his head hang low, trying to avoid his embarrassment. He felt silly and useless; being sick was something out of his control, but it didn't stop him from feeling absolutely inadequate right now. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes and left him feeling like he was looking through the bottom of a glass. His coughing subsided, but there was still the gentle wheeze tagging along on every intake and outtake of breath. 

"Blaine, can you breathe?" Kurt repeated. "Should I get my—"

"I'm fine," Blaine half croaked, half gasped the hasty response. "I'm okay."

 _'Everything except my pride, anyways,'_ he thought as his blood hesitantly began coursing through his veins normally again. He leaned his head back against the wall and Kurt covered the hand on Blaine's chest with his own before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to lazy curls. 

"Come on, I'll help you dry off. Do you need a minute?" 

Blaine hated how the words were saturated with worry, hated having to be taken care of; he was so used to having to do it all on his own that he wasn't quite sure _how_ to accept help from anyone, even from Kurt. He lifted his eyes, finally, expecting to see sympathy written all over Kurt's beautiful face, but all that was evident was the usual affection. Blaine shook his head and allowed himself to be helped up; as soon as the water was shut off, he was already being possessed by tremors. 

"I know, I know," Kurt said apologetically and rubbed Blaine's arms before sliding open the shower door and snatching a towel off of the rack on the wall. Blaine hugged himself tightly, teeth chattering so loudly that the sound echoed for miles in the tiny bathroom, and practically lunged into the warmth of Kurt's fluffy cotton draped arms. "I have the warmest pullover. It's probably a little baggier than you normally like wearing, but—"

"That'd be wonderful, thank you," Blaine's heart fluttered as he butchered the words—there were few things he loved more than wearing Kurt's clothes, having the smell of him so near that it permeated his skin to the point of intoxication. The only thing he may have loved more—though, if he had to be honest, it barely compared—was seeing his own clothes on Kurt: jeans that rose up over Kurt's ankles and outlined his groin and ass perfectly; vests that clung to him just a little too tightly; blazers that somehow managed to accentuate his slender waist. Blaine breathed and drank it all in like he'd never live another day to be able to do so. 

"Okay," Kurt smiled and, after managing to wrap a towel around his own waist, they hastily returned to the bedroom where they both dressed themselves in record time. Kurt dug out the pullover hoodie for Blaine and handed it to him before bringing their damp towels back to the bathroom to dry. "What do you want for breakfast? Use the—"

"I still feel so nauseous," Blaine interrupted, unwilling to surrender any of his patience just so that he could type out his responses. 

"You have to eat something," Kurt waltzed back to him and straightened out the drawstrings around Blaine's neck. "Toast?"

"I'll try toast," Blaine turned his head away and quickly raised up his hand to cough into. Immediately afterwards he was pinching the bridge of his nose, needing to take a second to compose himself. "And do you have any—any, uh—" he rolled his hand a few times, as though the gesture would aid in making the words appear. "Headache," he conceded, grumbling miserably.

"Yeah, I have just the thing. Let me start on that tea and I'll get it for you," Kurt rubbed Blaine's back soothingly. 

Blaine nodded and they ascended the stairs and passed like ghosts through empty, quiet rooms. The aftermath of the family's gift exchange still lay strewn about the living room, pieces of brightly coloured paper littering the floor and furniture. Blaine smiled to himself at the sight of the family's collective Christmas hangover, another personal favourite of his in regards to the holiday. They strolled into the kitchen and Blaine plopped down in a chair while Kurt busied himself with filling up a kettle with water. Blaine folded his arms on the table and lowered his head into them, concealing his face. Kurt continued to bustle around behind him, his bare feet sticking slightly to the linoleum and making—what Blaine thought to be—the strangest noises every time he lifted them up. It was then and there that he decided he chose the most menial things to zone out on whenever he was sick like this, in such a daze that he couldn't even remember the name of any medication to aid with his headache. He must have managed to fall asleep somewhere in the midst of that daze because the next thing to grab his attention was the hand suddenly on his shoulder—its owner unknown—and the gentle clattering in front of him as something was being set down on the table. He woke with a start, lifting his head immediately in reaction to the touch, and took in a sharp, pained breath as fireworks went off in his brain.

"Just me, kiddo," Burt moved his hand away and took half of a step backwards. "Bad dream or...?"

"Surprised me, is all," Blaine rubbed his eyes with the tact of a young child and coughed a few times with his mouth closed. 

"Here you go," Kurt was sitting beside Blaine and pushing a small, round plate with two pieces of toast on it towards him. "And here's your tea," he moved it closer. "And some cough syrup and something for your head." 

Blaine nodded gratefully and went for the cough syrup first, it being the easiest of everything to swallow down that might prove helpful. Afterwards, he gulped down two Tylenol—grimacing and silently cursing the minuscule spikes that must have been coating the seemingly smooth pills—and sipped his tea. Peppermint. Kurt knew him too well. 

"What do you boys have planned for the day?" Burt gravitated towards the counter and booted up the coffee machine.

"Blaine has to get some things from home before we go. And then, I guess we'll probably just hang around here until we have to leave. Maybe catch up on some—" 

"There's no way I'm watching Say Yes To The Dress, Kurt," Blaine cut in, some of his voice having returned as Kurt's tea worked wonders on his throat. He turned his attention back to it, gulping down as much as he could, and as quickly, without leaving his tongue scorched in the process. 

"That's not what I was going to say!" Kurt argued with a laugh at the tail end of his rebuttal. "The Walking Zombies? Is that the one you keep trying to get me to watch?"

Blaine nearly spit his tea out as he held back a laugh. "Now I know I must be sick," he dragged his palm across his chin to catch some tea that did manage to escape. "The Walking Dead. You'd really watch that with me? You're going to spend most of it with your face in my neck."

Kurt crinkled his nose as he mulled it over silently. "I don't mind."

Blaine raised an impressed eyebrow, considering Kurt's reaction to seeing Svengoobles, the vampire guest judge, at Regionals. Any previous attempts at watching horror films together usually meant Kurt simply wanted to spend two hours snuggled up nice and tight on the couch without any intention of following the storyline onscreen whatsoever. Even Burt joined Blaine in raising not one, but two eyebrows. 

"You hate anything having to do with that stuff," Burt stated simply and left it at that. Blaine lifted his mug to his lips and smiled behind the steam. Kurt huffed loudly and dramatically and all three of them burst out laughing. It felt good to be apart of it; Blaine passed lover's eyes between the dimples on Kurt's face to Burt's rouge cheeks. Sometimes it was still so strange to him to be allowed an inside look into their family, to feel included like this; he often found himself hovering above scenes just like this one, watching as he interacted with the two of them with such an ease he been a stranger to for years. Everything came natural for him around the Hummel men; he didn't have to pretend or compose himself beyond comfort like he did for so many others.

"We should probably get going, right?" Kurt said once their laughter died down. "Get packing out of the way so we can just relax all day."

"Mm," Blaine grunted softly in agreement and drained his mug dry. The two pieces of toast still lay before him, completely untouched. He avoided Kurt's eyes and scraped his chair back, getting to his feet. 

"You're going to make me have to spoon feed you soup when we get back, aren't you?" Kurt swiped a slice of toast, ripped off a piece and popped it into his mouth. "I'm not complaining, but I know you will be."

Blaine whined softly and tried to ignore the twinkle in Burt's eyes and the smug grin on his face as he watched the two of them. " _Kurt._ "

"Blaine," Kurt shot back and stood up as well, stuffing the rest of the toast into his mouth. "I'll grab our shoes and coats from downstairs. Be right back."

Before Blaine could get another word in Kurt had whisked himself away, leaving only Burt in the kitchen with him. Once upon a time, Blaine used to be intimidated by him; now...

"There's a game on tonight. Wanna watch before you kids leave?" Burt tipped his mug to his lips and peered at Blaine over the rim. 

"Go on, finish what you were going to say," Blaine felt the corners of his lips twitch into a grin. "How much this time? And be specific about the details."

Burt lowered the cup and acted surprised. "Oh, let's say.... five dollars? Ten minutes in?"

"Time doesn't cut it anymore. Specifics. I say after the Buckeyes' third down in the first quarter."

Burt snorted, "He won't make it past first down. You're on, Anderson." 

Kurt strolled back in with Blaine's shoes in one hand and their coats and scarves draped over his left arm. Both Blaine and Burt turned their gaze away from Kurt upon his entrance into the room, rolling their eyes upwards innocently; the only thing that could have possibly added more suspicion to their actions was if they both spontaneously burst into whistling fits. Kurt passed a confused expression between them, "What are you two up to?" 

"Be careful driving out there, we got a lot more snow overnight," Burt slid his hand through the handle of his mug and patted Kurt's shoulder as he passed by him on the way into the living room. Kurt immediately narrowed his eyes at Blaine. 

"What?" Blaine feigned obliviousness. "He was asking if I wanted to watch some of the game with him before we go. That's all." 

Kurt kept suspicious eyes on Blaine for a few more seconds before extending his arms out to him. "I'm going to go clean off my car and start getting it warmed up." 

Blaine took his coat, scarf and shoes and nodded at Kurt. The sapphire jewels that had been trying to pry their way into Blaine's soul a moment ago for the truth were suddenly reduced to crystal lakes, and he knew exactly what was implied— _don't come outside until I come to get you._ Kurt wouldn't let him anywhere near the car until it was sufficiently warmed up enough. Blaine smiled in understanding of the unspoken request. "I'm going to wait in the living room with your dad." Kurt pecked him on the cheek and left; Blaine proceeded into the living room where he sat down on the couch next to Burt and stepped into his shoes. The local news was on, but neither of them paid much attention to it. 

"So uh, how are things at home, Blaine?" Burt ran his thumb over the rim of his mug and held his gaze with the murky water inside for a moment before turning to Blaine. Blaine knew this was coming, knew it was inevitable ever since Burt had shown up on his doorstep yesterday and learned he was alone on Christmas; he didn't want to lie, not to him, not to anyone in the house, but he still had no clue how to ask for help without feeling weak and like he was being overdramatic. 

"They're... I mean, they're okay," Blaine rubbed the back of his neck and quietly cleared his throat. "I guess."

"You can talk to me, you know. If you need to," Burt offered politely with a warm smile. He turned his attention to the Christmas tree and ran his thumb over the rim of his mug again. "She would have loved you, you know. Kurt's mother." 

Blaine wasn't quite sure how to react to the statement. On the one hand, his heart expanded to the point where it might burst right through his chest—its second threat to do so in the past twelve hours—but, at the same time, hearing such a thing suddenly made him very depressed. Burt seemed happy with Carol, but he could see the longing in his eyes from time to time; it was the same longing Blaine imagined existed within his own eyes whenever he thought of his mother. "I'm sure my mom would have loved Kurt as well." 

Burt smiled, gaze still on the tree, and let out a low chuckle. Blaine cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brows, "What's funny?"

"She tried to prepare me for this. Even when Kurt was a kid, she knew. Hell, I guess even I knew—would have to be stupid not to."

"Prepare you for what?" Blaine got to his feet and straightened out his coat, folding out all of the small creases. The sound of the front door opening caught Blaine off guard and a second later Kurt was stamping snow off of his boots onto the doormat.

"Ready to go?" he asked, his cheeks bright pink.

Blaine looked to Burt, expecting an answer to his question. "Drive safe. I'll see you boys later."

Blaine remained where he stood, eyes on Burt, until, "Blaine?" He turned to Kurt and cleared his throat before zipping up his coat and approaching him. They proceeded out to the car and it wasn't long before Kurt's Navigator trampled the snow-covered driveway and they were en route to the Anderson residence. The interior of the car felt like an oven, but Blaine still hugged his arms close to himself and bit back the urge to let his teeth chatter. 

"So, _lover_ ," Kurt took his eyes off of the road for only a second to smirk at Blaine, "Fill me in on what I've missed from your life."

"You already know everything," Blaine laughed.

"I can't know _everything._ We haven't been able to talk much recently; I've been so busy and I feel terrible that I haven't made more time for to do so."

"You don't have to feel bad about that, Kurt. I understand. I understood it when I told you to go away," Blaine leaned his head back against the seat. It was true though, he had felt so much lonelier lately; Kurt's absence had become far more noticeable and almost unbearable at times. "Besides, we'll have plenty of time to catch up in New York."

They could practically feel each other’s grins adding more radiance to the already sweltering temperature within the car. Kurt kept his left hand on the steering wheel and subtly slid his right onto Blaine's knee. Blaine didn't hesitate in uncurling his arm from his torso and slipping his hand it into Kurt's, filling the spaces between his fingers with their slender, porcelain counterparts. He could almost trick himself into falling into an old familiar mindset, letting memories of their previous Christmas trickle in until they picked up speed and tore past the floodgate separating 'then' from 'now.' It felt like any other day they had spent together, driving around without a care in the world or a destination in mind, leaving Blaine's sense of time walking an extremely thin line. 

"I've missed this car," he admitted serenely, innocently. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Kurt's playful, knowing smirk. "I don't mean it like that!"

Kurt squeezed Blaine's hand, a hearty laugh erupting from someplace deep within his lungs, and turned into the driveway; it was untouched, pristinely covered in a thick blanket of snow that was no match for the mammoth of a car they were driving. Regardless, the knot in Blaine's stomach clenched itself tighter, his facial expression changed entirely, and he unconsciously tightened his grasp on Kurt's hand as he looked around to make sure he didn't see his father's car in sight. Kurt rubbed a small circle into Blaine's knuckles with his thumb in a meager attempt to soothe his boyfriend's nerves. "I'll go in with you." Blaine gave the perimeter one more quick glance before nodding, his eyes still focused outside of the window. 

Blaine was out of the car and ramming his key into the lock on the side door before Kurt had even managed to get his seatbelt off and clamber after him. He left the door open as he sprinted up the stairs—two at a time—to his bedroom, wheezing when he crossed the threshold. Kurt's swift footsteps were never far behind and he appeared as Blaine began stuffing some clothes into a backpack to pair up with the ones he already had packed back at the Hummel residence.

"Where's the fire?" Kurt joked nervously as he was forced to bear witness to his boyfriend's sudden frantic behaviour. Blaine was always very well put together—moments like these were few and far between—and Kurt couldn't recall ever seeing him so panicked before. 

"Just... wanna get this done fast, you know?" Blaine kneeled down and rummaged through the bottom drawer of his dresser for extra bow ties.

"Okay," Kurt didn't press the matter any further, reserving it for discussion later tonight.

"I think that's everything," Blaine straightened up and devoted most of his attention to scanning the room. "Let me just—"

The sound of the front door opening, followed by a slam and heavy, uncoordinated footsteps left Blaine wide eyed and in favour of abandoning his previous thought. Kurt's confusion did little to bring him back to himself so that he could offer any sort of explanation. 

"Blaine, what—"

 _Bang!_

"Motherfucking—you little—when I see you, I'll—" the remainder of Mr. Anderson's slurred outrage was reduced to indistinct grumbling. Kurt's heart sank right to the floor as the source of Blaine's fear dawned on him. Blaine never spent much time discussing his home life, despite Kurt's prying. At first, Kurt thought Blaine might have been ashamed of him, but he now believed it went beyond shame into the territory of "he's afraid for his life." There was more clanging and grumbling from downstairs, and Blaine remained frozen in the middle of the room. Kurt approached him and touched his shoulder—immediately taking note of the bundle of tense knots—to bring him back to reality. The residual haze he'd been lost in lingered in his eyes, but a beat later he shouldered his backpack and stood by the doorframe, listening carefully. 

"Okay, let's go," he whispered upon hearing the television from the living room downstairs, keeping his focus into the hall as he motioned for Kurt to follow him. They passed silently through the hallway and down the stairs; just when Blaine believed they might get away without any problems his father came staggering towards them through the entryway between the kitchen and living room. 

"The fuck is going on here? Who is this?" He leaned against the refrigerator and pointed a shaky finger at Kurt. 

"This is my... my..." Blaine's quiet voice was enough to reduce Kurt's heart to ashes. 

"I'm Kurt. His friend," he interrupted and extended his hand. Mr. Anderson stared at it before looking to his son. 

"He looks like a fag."

Kurt lowered his hand and felt Blaine's already overworked muscles clench up tighter as his boyfriend let out a shuddering breath. "Don't... don't talk to him like that."

"Well, he does. Look at—"

"Don't talk to my boyfriend like that!" Blaine bellowed, taking both of them by surprise. A series of coughs and gasps followed his outburst and Kurt's hand immediately went to Blaine's back, patting and rubbing it tenderly. Mr. Anderson narrowed his eyes at Blaine; red flames replaced his umber irises. 

"You're pulling this shit again? When are you going to stop with this pretending to be gay bullshit? I know you're doing it for attention—for—just to piss me off," he spoke with such icy venom that Kurt swore he could feel the temperature in the room just drop. 

"This isn't—" Blaine coughed violently, almost choking, "This isn't about you, dad!" He rushed through the statement on borrowed air, but his lungs soon rejected that too. Kurt couldn't bear to stand idly by anymore; this was supposed to be a time of joy, a time for them to catch up and spend a few days completely enveloped in each other without the rest of the world to ruin it. 

"Come on," he gently pulled on Blaine's arm. "Let's just go, okay? Come on."

"You're not going anywhere," Mr. Anderson staggered forward and lost his balance, colliding face first into the tiled floor. 

"Blaine, come on," Kurt repeated as Blaine stared at the spectacle that was supposed to be his father. With another gentle tug from Kurt they were out the door, mostly indistinct screaming at their backs as Kurt helped Blaine into the passenger seat.

"You're no fucking son of mine! You fucking—you faggot—you're a fucking disappointment. I wish you were—"

Kurt quickly closed the door before Blaine could catch the end of his cruel sentiment, but through the glass and the thin layer of dusty snow his face appeared like a mosaic of bitter dismay.

_'I wish you were never born.'_

Kurt began to wonder just how many times Blaine had come to hear those words over the years, if his trying to shelter him from the insult now even mattered at all. There had always been a dark side to Blaine, bittersweet and inviting, but Kurt never succeeded in delving in deep enough to know the details behind the existence of those shadows. He wasted no further time and circled the car to the driver's side; within seconds they were on the road again and Blaine's attempt to sniffle quietly was the only exchange of sound between them. Once Blaine's house was out of sight, Kurt pulled off to the side of the road—his heart too heavy to let Blaine bear the weight of his sorrow alone—where he then proceeded to place his hand on his boyfriend's thigh, innocently and reassuringly. At the gentle contact Blaine lost control of himself; he coughed loudly between the sobs wracking his frail body; he hid his face in his hands, trying to conceal the tears, mucus, and shame. Kurt shoved the gearshift to "park" and guided his arms around Blaine, pulling him as close as the center console would allow, and buried his face in the field of thick curls he adored so much. 

"I'm here, I'm right here and I'm not letting go," he whispered. Blaine only cried harder in response. 

And as Kurt pressed a kiss to those curls, as he tried to steady Blaine's tremors with a tight embrace, as he whispered sweet somethings that he hoped would breach the fog surrounding them, he wondered how anyone could place their faith in any sort of higher deity who allowed so much pain to burden such a gentle spirit. The next stretch of time crept by unmeasured and, still, Kurt kept his arms firmly around Blaine until the sobs had subsided into whimpers and the unwavering tremors had become sporadic shivers. And when Blaine finally lifted up his head, hazel eyes still glistening with the residual sheen of his tears, Kurt extracted a box of tissues from the backseat and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

"I'm taking you to your _real_ home now, Blaine."


End file.
